


To the Dogs

by Saone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Fluff, Gen, Getting Together, M/M, Matchmaking, Pre-Slash, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, complete fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1317703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saone/pseuds/Saone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with a slice of pizza...</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> Not betad, grammarians beware.
> 
> This is nothing but pure fluff. Fluffy, fluffy, fluff.

Phil never sees the hit coming. He's walking down the street, just a block or so from his office, with his lunch in one hand - a generous slice of pizza, extra pepperoni - and his phone in the other. A text has just come in from Grant, and Phil's starting to thumb in a reply. Then, with absolutely no warning, something slams into the back of his knees, and he topples forward. 

In another life, and decade, Phil would be immediately on his feet, assessing the threat first and damage later. But Phil hasn't seen action in more years than he'd care to count, so he stays still for the second it takes for his body to decide how much pain its going to be in. His hands took the brunt of the impact, the palms scraped raw by the rough concrete of the sidewalk, though his knees are probably going to give him all kinds of grief later. Nothing seems broken though, except his phone. 

And his pizza... His pizza is currently being devoured by the most unfortunate-looking mutt Phil thinks he's ever seen.

Phil stares at the mutt. The mutt is much too busy with Phil's lunch to bother with staring back. There's a collar around its throat, and attached to the collar is a leash. The furry monster belongs to someone. Phil's not going to yell at the dog, but he'll gladly have some words with the dog's owner.

Phil gingerly moves to his knees - oh yeah, those are going to feel awesome in the morning - and looks around. There's no one running towards them in the frantic way that someone who just lost control of a mangy, pizza-stealing mutt would have. There's no one really paying much attention to them at all, except for a kid across the street who looks like he's filming them on his cellphone.

"That's just great," Phil says. 

The mutt inhales the last of the crust, moves its mouth into something eerily close to a grin, and gives Phil's face the most revolting tongue bath in the history of ever.

"Ugh. Stop, stop, stop." Phil quickly gets to his feet. "You are disgusting." 

The dog looks up at him with its stupidly happy face. Its tail wags.

"You ate my lunch."

The tail wags harder.

"Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?"

The dog's entire backside starts to move from the force its tail is putting out.

Phil looks around again. He sighs, then crouches down - wow, that doesn't feel good - and picks up the end of the leash. "Come on, mutt. Let's find out who you belong to. So I can yell at them. A lot."

Phil limps down the street. The dog stays at his pace. It doesn't even try to pull at the short lead Phil's given it. It's obviously had some kind of training, which makes Phil think their current predicament is most likely due to a neglectful owner. Yes, Phil and Mr. Mangy Mutt are definitely going to have words.

By the time Phil gets back to the brownstone that serves as an office for his security consulting business, everything has started ache. He doesn't care about yelling at Mr. Mangy Mutt anymore. All he wants is to wash the grit from his hands, pop a couple of Advil, and sink down into his nice, comfy, ergonomic chair for a few days. The dog will be foisted off onto the first of his employees he sees, and then promptly forgotten about.

Yes, that is the plan.

That was the plan.

"Holy crap," Skye says as soon as Phil gets his foot in the door, "what the hell happened to you?!" Her voice carries and, within a few moments, the rest of his staff arrive from various other rooms.

"I got knocked down," Phil says. He holds up the hand with the leash and cringes as every single face before him - even Melinda's - softens as they look upon his furry attacker.

"What did you do to it?" Skye asks, as she holds out her hand to let the dog get her scent.

"It came that way," Phil says irritably. "Can we talk about what it did to me?" He drops the leash and holds up his hands.

Fitz pales and makes a strangled noise. He starts to back away. "I'm just going to-"

"Wait," Phil says. He takes his broken phone out of his pocket. "Can you see if-" Phil blinks as the phone is snatched from his grasp, and Fitz hightails it down to his lair in the basement.

"You know how he gets around blood," Jemma says. "Sit down, I'll get the First Aid kit."

"I can just wash-"

"I _said_ , I'll get the First Aid kit. Sit." Jemma points to one of the chairs in the waiting area. He sits, and pretends to not notice the dog planting its butt at the same time.

"So well-trained," Melinda says with a smirks. 

Phil glares at her.

"I was talking about the dog," she says.

"I know exactly what you were talking about," he snipes.

"He's got a tag," Ward says, mainly to Skye, who's crouched down next to the beast and is scratching its scarred head.

The dog's eye is closed in complete doggy bliss. Skye keeps one hand going on its head as her other hand pulls its tag into the light. "Let's see... His name's Lucky. Wow, somebody has a sick sense of humor." She flips the tag over. "Got a number."

"Awesome," Grant pulls out his phone and taps in the digits as Skye says them. He puts the phone up to his ear, and they wait. After a minute or so, Grant says, "Hey, did you loose a..." His eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah, yeah, Lucky. We've got him... No, he's fine..."

Jemma's come back out with the First Aid kit, and Phil tunes out Ward's conversation with Mr. Mangy Mutt at the first sting of antiseptic. 

"Make sure you do his knees too," Melinda says. "There's blood on the fabric.

Phil had been hoping that the burn on his kneecaps was caused by the impact with the sidewalk, but when he looks down he can see bloody skin showing through the torn bits of Italian wool. "Wonderful."

"Okay," Grant says, thumbing off his phone, "Lucky's owner is on his way here."

"Did you tell him to bring his checkbook?" Phil asks.

"Uh..."

"Oh, please," Skye says, "like you don't have a million more of that exact same suit." She vigorously scratches down the dog's throat. "Doesn't he? Yes, he does. _Yes, he does_." The dog lets out a soft whuff and leans into Skye.

"Awwwww," Jemma says. "He really is just a sweet thing, isn't he?"

"No," Phil says, "he isn't. And stop bonding with it, the both of-" Phil hisses at a particularly rough swipe across one of his wounds.

Jemma gives him an unimpressed look. "Oh dear, did that hurt?"

Phil opens his mouth, then thinks better of it and closes it again.

Jemma smiles sweetly as she slaps some bandages on him. "That's your hands done. Now, take off your pants."

"I'll just take care of my knees myself, thanks." Phil grabs the First Aid kit, and what's left of his dignity and pride, and hobbles down the hallway to his office. He ignores the snorting, giggling, and happy panting he leaves behind him.

_______

After Phil cleans and bandages his knees, and mourns the loss of his pants, he stands in the middle of his office in nothing but his boxers, undershirt, and socks and ponders his clothing options. He could just send Skye to his apartment to grab another suit for him, except... he'd rather not give her the satisfaction of seeing how right she was. He doesn't have a _million_ suits, obviously, but he has enough of the same cut and color that she'd feel smug about it. No one likes Skye's smug face.

Fortunately, Phil has a go bag stuffed in the back of his closet. It's a throwback to the time when he might have needed to travel around the world at a moment's notice, and Phil had mostly forgotten about it. Now, he's just happy the clothes inside still fit. He carefully pulls the jeans on over his bandaged knees, then he pulls the tee shirt down over his head. He's just finishing tying his sneakers when he hears what sounds like a happy yelp from the outer office.

Phil's mostly decided to not give Mr. Mangy Mutt a piece of his mind. He's also decided to not mention his phone or his suit. The type of person who would adopt a dog like Lucky is probably the exact type of person who doesn't deserve someone like Phil acting like a dick towards them. So, mind made up to try and be as pleasant as possible, Phil walks back out towards the waiting area.

He's glad everyone's eyes are on the man trying to hug the stuffing out of Lucky, because then no one gets to see his jaw drop. Mr. Mangy Mutt is neither mangy nor a mutt.

The man has his face pressed into Lucky's fur, but his body-hugging tee and jeans show off an incredible physique. And his messy, thick hair is a golden brown, only a few shades darker than his dog's. Then he lifts his head, and Phil might go a little weak in his already abused knees. The guy's face is ruggedly handsome, and his big, blue eyes are shining with what looks like unshed tears.

"Seriously," the guy says, looking up towards Skye and practically radiating gratitude. "The kids have just been beside themselves since he got away from them. I don't know what I would have done if... Anyway, thank you for getting him off the street. Thank you so much."

"Oh, it wasn't us," Skye says, a little breathlessly, if Phil's not mistaken. "It was our boss. He's just..." She turns and catches sight of Phil standing there. "Whoa. Casual wear. What?"

Phil ignores her, and the looks the others give him too, and moves further into the room. "Phil Coulson," he says. He almost initiates a handshake, then remembers it would probably best if he kept his bandaged appendages to himself.

The man stands up, but he keeps one hand on Lucky's head. "Clint Barton. So, you're the guy who found Lucky?"

"Uh, more like he found me," Phil says.

"And, by 'found', Phil means he got knocked ass over teakettle," Melinda oh-so-helpfully says.

Phil shoots her a glare and is horrified when she winks at him in return. Crap. Maybe his admiration of Lucky's owner didn't go as unnoticed as he'd hoped.

"What?" Mr. Barton says, looking stricken. "Did he hurt you?"

"Just my pride," Phil says.

"And his hands," Ward says.

"And his suit," Skye says.

"And his phone," Jemma adds on.

" _Lucky_." Mr. Barton gapes down at his dog, who seems to pick up on the admonishing tone, if the sudden droop in his form is anything to go on.

"It's fine," Phil says. He shoots a quelling glance at his underlings. The innocently blank looks he gets in return are chilling. He turns back to Mr. Barton, who's aiming an impressive scowl at an increasingly contrite Lucky. "I'm fine. _Really_. The only thing that can't be fixed or replaced is the slice of pizza he ate."

"Pizza? Well, that explains it." Barton shakes his head. "Lucky, you know you're not supposed to have pizza. What did the doc say about your cheese intake, huh?"

Lucky whines pitifully and presses his ducked head against Barton's calf.

Barton sighs and pats Lucky's head again. "Silly dog. Look," he says to Phil, "I don't have much cash on me, but I can come back and-"

"No, no, don't worry about it," Phil says.

"Your phone-"

"I've got a tech guy in the basement who's working on it. I'm sure he'll be able to fix it."

"Your suit-"

"I've got other suits."

"Lots of suits," Skye says, the grin clear in her voice.

"Yes, thank you, Skye," Phil says through an only slightly clenched jaw. His face relaxes into a smile, though, when he addresses Barton again. "I've got lots of suits. It's all right. Really."

Barton doesn't look convinced. "I still feel like I should offer you something. I mean, Luck knocked you down and got you all scraped up. I just-"

"You could take him to lunch," Grant says. 

Phil blinks at the sly smile on Grant's usually stoic and unemotional face. "What?"

"That's a great idea, Grant," Skye says.

"Simply smashing idea," Jemma says.

Melinda looks at him fondly. "I'm so proud of you right now."

"Stop it," Phil says. "All of you. Mr. Barton-"

"Clint. Call me Clint. Please."

"Oh." Phil blinks again. "Clint. Um. Clint couldn't possibly take me to lunch."

"Actually," Clint says, "I could."

"But, don't you need to get back to your kids?"

"My... Oh, no, the kids who..." Clint grins. "They're my neighbor's kids. They were out, and a truck backfired, and Lucky... Well, Luck doesn't really like loud noises, so he bolted. The poor little guys just couldn't' keep hold of him. Actually, I should give their mom a call so she can tell them Lucky's safe. They've been worried sick. Then, we could go to lunch." He ducks his head a bit, looking charmingly like his pet for a moment. "I mean, if you want."

"He does," Melinda says quickly.

"And Lucky can stay here 'til you guys get back," Skye says. She leans over and starts scratching Lucky's head again. "Can you stay here?! Yes, you can! _Yes, you can_!"

Phil shakes his head. "Really, Clint, you don't have to-"

"You didn't have to bring him here," Clint says softly. "He knocked you down. Messed you up. You could have left him on the street."

"No, I couldn't," Phil says. "Who on Earth would just leave a dog like that?"

Clint grins at him. "Now I'm definitely taking you to lunch."

Phil starts to make another protest when he's suddenly struck by just how stupid he's being. This hot guy, with the gorgeous eyes and a soft spot for strange dogs, wants to take him - _him_ \- out for lunch. Why the hell is he saying no to something like that?

"Okay," Phil says. "Let's go out. To lunch. Let's go out to lunch."

Clint's grin gets bigger, and Phil's heart might flutter, just a tiny, tiny bit. 

It's a nice grin.

"Good," Skye says. "And you can drop by your apartment and change before you come back. That whole jeans and tee shirt combo looks really weird. No offense."

"I don't know," Clint murmurs, "it looks pretty good to me."

Phil does _not_ blush, though his ears burn a bit.

Clint hands Lucky's leash to Skye, and tells the dog, who's listening intently, to behave and he'll be back for him later. "He's not so bad, really," Clint says to Phil. 

"Yeah," Phil says, reaching down to give Lucky's head a few soft pats, "he's a good dog."

_______

end


End file.
